


Memories, Memoirs, Mementos

by jack_inaboxx



Series: crack in the glass [21]
Category: Original Work, Star Trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_inaboxx/pseuds/jack_inaboxx
Summary: Recovery is a long road. He walks it for a while.
Series: crack in the glass [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774129





	Memories, Memoirs, Mementos

It’s only as he’s packing everything up (into neat, labeled boxes, hiding away all his memories, his very essence, the only thing he allows to be seen of himself by anyone else- the only part he can be proud of. the only markers of his kindness. the only one that reassures him that he has it.) that he really realizes how many memories he has accumulated, crowded into his little office. (There are more personal things in his quarters; memories he cannot share. Reminders. Echoes. Those will be packed too, eventually.)

Somehow, it only takes two boxes. He thought it would be more. There are so many things, they should not fit in two boxes. His memories, everything, packed in two, nondescript, regulation boxes. His office looks so empty, now. It feels so cold. Lonely. It is not his office anymore. 

He picks up his boxes, and carries them to his quarters, where they will join five more- four of them covered in dust, unopened for years. One is all that he values that had been in his quarters. 

(When he finally gets to his new house- he cannot say home, it’s just a shell, no feeling to it, no soul- they will sit in a closet, gathering more dust, for two and a half years before he finally drags himself out of a bottle and opens them. There is a lot of crying that night. 

Every drop of alcohol in the house is out with the trash the next morning.)

It’s bitter, walking past the crew. They stare, or glance away, or awkwardly greet him. He doesn’t reply to any of them. They don’t understand, not why he’s leaving. He isn’t sure he does, either. But he cannot be here. 

(That house, slowly, starts to feel like home. Potted plants begin appearing on the windowsills. Some die, at first. He gets more. He learns. They begin to thrive.) 

The quarters- not his anymore- feel empty and cold, just as his office does. (Not his office.) It’s lonely. He misses not being able to be lonely. He misses being alone. At the same time, he knows that he doesn’t. He’s just mourning. 

(He paints the outside of the house. It goes from a crumbling, yellowing shade to a calm, softer white. He likes that shade. It makes him feel… peaceful. Tomorrow he’ll paint the trim, and maybe fix the fence.)

He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. Not with this, not with how this is. Not now.

(Cursing, he picks splinters from his fingertips. The fence is repaired. He paints it white the next day. There are more potted plants in the windowsills than ever. They are thriving.)

It’ll take them a few days to reach Earth again. He doesn’t leave his quarters.

(The grass is mown. There are carefully-tended flowerbeds. The house is carefully tended. The plants in the windowsills are greener and happier than ever. Nobody has seen the occupant of the house for three months.)

When the time comes, he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t eat, or sleep, or think. He just packs up his things, mechanically, carries them out to the transporter. He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t wave. He just vanishes in the tingling, dancing light of the transporter beam. 

(Inside the house, it is empty. There are shelves full of things, from all manner of different cultures. They are all carefully displayed and preserved with the same love someone else might give treasured family photographs. There is no dust, but nobody has lived there for some time.)

_(When he finally gets to his new house- he cannot say home, it’s just a shell, no feeling to it, no soul- they will sit in a closet, gathering more dust, for two and a half years before he finally drags himself out of a bottle and opens them. There is a lot of crying that night._

_Every drop of alcohol in the house is out with the trash the next morning.)_

(Eventually, the plants on the windowsills begin to overgrow their pots. Slowly, the paint yellows, and peels. The fence falls into disrepair. Dirt begins to cake on the windows.)

_(That house, slowly, starts to feel like home. Potted plants begin appearing on the windowsills. Some die, at first. He gets more. He learns. They begin to thrive.)_

(It becomes clear that nobody is living there anymore.)

_(He paints the outside of the house. It goes from a crumbling, yellowing shade to a calm, softer white. He likes that shade. It makes him feel… peaceful. Tomorrow he’ll paint the trim, and maybe fix the fence.)_

(The house is now obviously abandoned. There are no plants on the windowsills. The inside of the house is empty. There’s no indication of where what _had_ been there went.)

_(Cursing, he picks splinters from his fingertips. The fence is repaired. He paints it white the next day. There are more potted plants in the windowsills than ever. They are thriving.)_

(Eventually, someone will come around and buy the house again. They won’t last any longer than he did. The pattern is familiar. He has seen it many times since his own stay in that house.)

_(The grass is mown. There are carefully-tended flowerbeds. The house is carefully tended. The plants in the windowsills are greener and happier than ever. Nobody has seen the occupant of the house for three months.  
_

_Inside the house, it is empty. There are shelves full of things, from all manner of different cultures. They are all carefully displayed and preserved with the same love someone else might give treasured family photographs. There is no dust, but nobody has lived there for some time.  
_

_Eventually, the plants on the windowsills begin to overgrow their pots. Slowly, the paint yellows, and peels. The fence falls into disrepair. Dirt begins to cake on the windows.  
_

_It becomes clear that nobody is living there anymore.  
_

_The house is now obviously abandoned. There are no plants on the windowsills. The inside of the house is empty. There’s no indication of where what had been there went.  
_

_Eventually, someone will come around and buy the house again. They won’t last any longer than he did. The pattern is familiar-)_

The pattern ~~breaks~~

The pattern… shifts.

When he finally gets to his new house- he cannot say home, it’s just a shell, no feeling to it, no soul- they will sit in a closet, gathering more dust, for two and a half years before he finally drags himself out of a bottle and opens them. There is a lot of crying that night. 

Every drop of alcohol in the house is out with the trash the next morning.

That house, slowly, starts to feel like home. Potted plants begin appearing on the windowsills. Some die, at first. He gets more. He learns. They begin to thrive.

He paints the outside of the house. It goes from a crumbling, yellowing shade of white to a calm, soft blue-purple. He likes that shade. It makes him feel… peaceful. Tomorrow he’ll paint the trim, and maybe fix the fence.

Cursing, he picks splinters from his fingertips. The fence is repaired. He puts wood finish on it the next day. There are more potted plants in the windowsills than ever. They are thriving.

The grass is mown. There are carefully-tended flowerbeds. The house is carefully tended. The plants in the windowsills are greener and happier than ever. The occupant of the house begins to be known as the quiet Frenchman who listens. He doesn’t say much, but you always feel better after talking to him for a little while.

Inside the house, it’s cozy. There are shelves full of things, from all manner of different cultures. They are all carefully displayed and preserved with the same love someone else might give treasured family photographs. The carpets are all hand-made. The pots of the plants on the windowsill have little designs painted on them. 

Eventually, some of the plants on the windowsill need to be transferred outside. They’ve outgrown their pots. He replaces the empty spots on the sill with new ones. Paintings start to appear on the walls, amateur, but friendly. 

It becomes clear that this house has become home.

The house is now obviously loved. The quiet Frenchman who listens is no longer watching the stars, waiting for them to take him away. He has settled in this old house, with his plants, and his memories, and his painting. 

Eventually, he will die here. The house will not be sold. He will have it given to the ‘droids, maybe; he knows they would take good care of it. Bailey in particular will love the plants. 

Another year, and there is a familiar hum in the air. He smiles. He knows that hum. He knows that _feel_ in his heart. It’s time for him to go home. 

Eventually, he will die here.

For now… it’s time he returned to the stars he so loves. The plants will grow. He will need to fix the house up again, when he comes back to this place, but he finds he does not mind. 

His memories, he packs up into their neat boxes. He stacks them carefully. He smiles, faintly, as he’s beamed back home; _at last_. 

(Interesting, he muses. This is not part of the pattern. Perhaps there is hope, after all. Perhaps, there is hope.

He hopes so.)


End file.
